


Champion

by Onehelluvapilot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Gwen (Merlin), Betaed, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Gwen (Merlin), Character Study, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt Lancelot (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Lancelot (Merlin) Lives, Lancelot is Arthur's Champion, Major Character Injury, Male Friendship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Protective Arthur, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Serious Injuries, Sir Loves-a-lot, protective Lancelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25850281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onehelluvapilot/pseuds/Onehelluvapilot
Summary: Lancelot is the King's Champion, chosen to fight in his place in tournaments, challenges, and single combat. When one challenge goes badly, the knight is injured and taken to the Arthur's chambers to recover.Betaed by simoneleona, whose help was invaluable in making it what it is.
Relationships: Gwen & Lancelot (Merlin), Lancelot & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some brief armor terminology (that I got off of wikipedia I'm not an expert): a standard is the chainmail collar thing that goes out to their shoulders and a hauberk is the chainmail shirt.

“Let me see your face before I die,” Lancelot asked of the anonymous challenger. It would have been easy for this request to come out as a plea, especially given his vulnerable position on his back at the feet of the other knight, but he took care to use his rapidly-diminishing strength to put power behind his voice. This was both so that his words would carry to those in the grandstands watching the fight and so that he would not dishonor the king he fought for by being seen to beg. Wanting to at least face his death with a weapon in his hand, he tried again to grasp his sword, but the whole arm had been numbed by the blow to his shoulder and it seemed that he would have to settle for having the pommel of his sword lay in his open palm. That was enough, he supposed. As the massive knight raised his broadsword, which was fully twice as thick as Lancelot’s own and whose point would easily pierce his chainmail, he closed his eyes. He had hoped he might get the challenger to reveal his identity and give Arthur the small advantage of knowing who was trying to kill him, but it seemed like that was not going to be his legacy.  _ Keep him safe, Merlin _ , he prayed,  _ for I have failed to. _ He had no doubt that the king would challenge the challenger in retribution for his death, never mind that the point of a Champion was to fight, and sometimes die, for their lord.

There was a clang and a collective gasp from the audience, but surprisingly, no pain bloomed in his chest. Perhaps his breastplate had stopped the blade, he thought. However, he’d felt no new pressure against his ribcage either and no second, killing stroke was forthcoming. Lancelot opened his eyes.

The knight’s helm lay at his feat, its decorative bull horns embedded in the dirt. Given how both of the man’s huge gauntleted hands were still clenched around his sword, Lancelot didn’t think he had taken it off himself.  _ Merlin _ , he thought, and smiled. The warlock must’ve broken the straps holding it on, like he had done with so many saddles, to reveal the true nature of the challenger. With how obvious his uses of magic could be sometimes, it was a miracle no one had noticed. In this case, however, he doubted anyone was paying attention to how the helmet had come off as much as what it had revealed when it did so. The knight, although that seemed a less apt descriptor now, had the head of a bull. That probably explained why he hadn’t so much as said a word when he threw his gauntlet down in front of the king’s table during the feast yesterday, Lancelot considered distantly. Arthur would never have knowingly accepted a challenge from a magical creature. They probably should have guessed it, though, given the knight’s enormous size and incredible strength

A shout issued from behind him. Lancelot felt through the earth as the king’s feet hit the ground and rushed forward, followed a second later by his soldiers. Since the knight was not human, and likely not a knight at all, the challenge was illegitimate and they could interfere. Someone grabbed Lancelot by the arms and dragged him away from the new fight that was occurring. His sword was left behind and even though he could not have wielded it, his hand felt empty without its weight.

“Stay with me,” Arthur pleaded, and the Champion realized that his head and bleeding shoulders were now cradled in the lap of the king. Now, this was a much nicer face to see before he died, he thought as he gazed up at his sky blue eyes, and wished that his mouth would cooperate enough to say as much. “Lancelot, stay with me, that’s an order,” the king barked, and he tried to obey, he really did, but the wounds and the pain were too much and the world was already fading to black.

* * *

  
  


Lancelot had been slashed across the thigh and stabbed in the left side, which were both serious injuries in themselves, but by far the worst damage was to his right arm. The monster’s massive broadsword had come down on his shoulder right beside his neck, cutting through chainmail and flesh and fracturing his collar bone. Gaius and Merlin had been able to remove his standard while he still lay on the tournament field and access the wound to stop the bleeding, but given the way the physician could feel bone shift beneath his hands as he applied pressure, it was quickly decided that they should take Lancelot inside before attempting to remove his hauberk. Doing so would involve moving his arm and likely causing more damage, and in the end they cleaned and stitched the wound through the neck hole while waiting for Gwen to retrieve a pair of bolt cutters from the forge. She returned quickly with the needed tools and carefully cut the rings of his mail on his sleeve and down his right side so that they could slip it off without hurting him. It would take many hours to repair, but no one was focussed on that now.

“Arthur, we’ll need you to hold him while we set the bone,” Gaius said, snapping the king out of the almost daze of fear and grief he’d been in since rescuing Lancelot. Could it really be called a rescue, though, when he’d almost let him die? Arthur felt a pit form in stomach as he remembered watching each blow fall, and wondering whether he could call an end to the fight before Lance was killed. He should have. The rules of chivalry allowed it.

A Champion could fight for a king, but the king ought to be able to speak for the Champion, including to yield in a challenge.

Arthur had been on his feet since the first clash of swords, but at each blow that connected he was ready to launch himself over the barricade and into the arena. Lancelot would never yield, he knew, and until the knight’s voice rang out strong and clear even as he lay bleeding out into the dirt, the king had thought he wouldn’t even be able to speak had he wanted to surrender. His words were what convinced Arthur not to intervene on his behalf. Lancelot clearly wished to face his death with honor, and he couldn’t betray that by saving his life. He regretted that decision fiercely now. Had it not been for the challenger’s helmet coming off so unexpectedly, he would have allowed his best friend to die for him.

“I shouldn’t,” Arthur replied to Gaius. What right did he have to even touch Lancelot after what he had done to him? “I mean, I don’t know how to- How do I not hurt him?” he stammered.

“Come sit here on the bed,” Merlin instructed, taking him by the wrist and carefully arranging his body beside the injured knight. It was so different than the usual physical interactions between the two men that it didn’t even feel real. Arthur was practically pliant, and gods wasn’t that the most unnatural thing in the world. Well, the second most unnatural, right after Lancelot lying limp and defeated and oh so pale against the stark white sheets. They’d carried him on a litter up to the King’s chambers, which were the easiest to reach in the castle due to the wide hallways and ceremonial stairs that led up to them. Once he was in position, Merlin and Gaius eased Lancelot upright and turned his left shoulder against Arthur’s chest so that he could hold him in a sitting position without impairing access to his right side. The knight stirred briefly and they all paused to see if he would wake. He didn’t, at least not yet, and simply shifted ever so slightly so his head was nestled against the crook of Arthur’s neck. Along with turning his own head to press his lips into the man’s dark hair, the king braced his champion with his right arm slung low across his back and his left on his bare stomach.

“It’s okay,” he whispered when Gaius began to set the bone and the knight whimpered even in unconsciousness. “You’re going to be alright,” he said, though the physician had assured him of no such outcome. He had to be alright. Lancelot couldn’t die, not for him, not again. Arthur barely noticed as Merlin bound the knight’s arm, fashioning a sling for it before then also tying his upper arm to his side with bandages so the joint was completely immobilized, until they told him he could lay him back down.

“It would be best not to move him again, sire,” Gaius said, “but we can probably risk the transfer to his own room if necessary, as it’s just down the hall.”

“No, no, he can stay here,” Arthur quickly countered. “Of course he can stay here…” He must’ve still sounded dazed, as Merlin took him and led him over to sit at the table. The king dropped his head into his hands. “This is all my fault, Merlin. I should never have let him accept a challenge from a knight who wouldn’t show his face.”

“Lancelot knew what he was doing, ” the servant replied, even if his face screwed together in distaste. “Was it a stupid decision? Yes. But you did the same thing, worse, actually, because you issued the challenge yourself, with the Black Knight. You hated it then when your father took your spot, just as Lancelot would hate it if you refused to let him fight. He chose to be your Champion.”

Arthur sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t have asked it of him.” He remembered thinking, when he’d chosen Lancelot to serve on a permanent basis as his bodyguard and representative in any challenges or tourneys that came up, that it was unfair to ask him to risk, and potentially lose, his life for him again. Unfortunately, he was the only one qualified for the role. Leon had excused himself from consideration, as his job coordinating the knights was work enough. Percival wasn’t fast enough to deal with lithe or slippery assassins, Gwaine would take every opportunity to embarrass the ‘princess,’ and Elyan disliked the spotlight too much. Lancelot, on the other hand, was perfect. He was the second-best swordsman in the kingdom (after the king himself), perfectly polite and courteous, and as the first commoner knight Arthur had stuck up for, a good symbol of his fairer reign and a more equitable Camelot.

Merlin clapped a hand down on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “Regrets won’t help him now. You should- I don’t know, go pass a law banning anonymous knights from issuing challenges,” he suggested. Arthur quickly turned around to look at his servant.

“That’s… actually a good idea.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Of course I’m surprised,  _ Mer _ lin,” he teased, smiling despite himself as he shoved his friend’s shoulder affectionately as he stood up. He sobered quickly when his eyes fell on Lancelot, lying motionless in his bed, more of him covered with bandages than bare. “You’ll look after him while I’m gone?” He realized the ridiculousness of this question as soon as he said it. Merlin, Gwen, and Gaius would be the ones caring for Lancelot whether or not the king was present; Arthur didn’t have a single instinct dedicated to tending for others. With Lance, though, he would try.

“Of course,” Merlin agreed, politely not pointing out this fact. “Before you go, though, you should probably change clothes.” Arthur immediately looked down, wondering what was wrong with what he was wearing, and saw that it was covered with blood. He felt sick until his manservant had helped him out of his shirt and into a clean one, and even then the nausea lingered. He had to make sure this wouldn’t happen again. Trusting that Merlin would come tell him if there was any change with Lancelot, he hurried off to the council chambers, sending servants to fetch the cabinet members on his way. He threw himself into the discussion, turning it into an argument by accident just to do something, to try to shake off the persistent feeling of wrongness to be there without his wife on his right and his Champion on his left.

* * *

  
  


The bed under Lancelot was soft, softer than the one in his own quarters and certainly softer than Merlin’s bed or one of the stretched-canvas cots in Gaius’s chambers. By a quick process of elimination, he realized where he was before he even opened his eyes. The king’s bedroom was warm, despite the breeze blowing in through the open window, and the blanket pulled up over him was thick. He hoped they had put down some less expensive towels or rags before moving him there, so he didn’t bleed all over the nice down mattress and silk sheets. It was night, he noticed by the quiet and the dark when he opened his eyes. Only a few candles glowed, and by their light he could see Arthur asleep on a pallet on the floor, Guinevere sitting at his desk mending chainmail with a pair of pliers, and Merlin leaning against the bed near his hip, asleep on his own arms. He was the first to wake and take notice when Lancelot moved, followed quickly by Gwen. 

“What happened?” he asked, instinctively trying to push himself up to sitting. He realized this was impossible as his right arm was bound against his chest and his side screamed with agony as soon as he moved.

“Take it easy, you’re badly hurt,” Merlin said as he reached across his friend’s body to press him back to the mattress by his uninjured shoulder. Gwen quickly set down her mending, which Lancelot recognized as his own hauberk, and rushed over to his bedside.

"What-" he started to ask again, when he’d barely regained his breath, before Merlin interrupted him so he wouldn't have to strain himself.

"It was a minotaur," he answered. "The knight that challenged you. Part man, part bull. Extraordinarily strong and hardy, but able to be killed when stabbed enough times."

"So it's dead?"

Gwen nodded. "As you nearly were." Lancelot could hear the worry clinging to her voice and suspected that was why he was in the king's chambers with all of them; they wanted to look after him. For once, he wouldn't begrudge them that, nor object to a little pampering. Not at their expense however.

“Arthur shouldn’t sleep on the floor, he’s the king,” he protested, looking over at the man in question. He was sprawled across the small mattress that lay near the wall nearest to the bed.

“It’ll do him good,” Merlin said with a soft laugh, probably trying not to wake the man in question. “A king should have to sleep on the floor sometimes, for humility.”

“He didn’t want to leave you, and with your injuries, he couldn’t lay in the bed beside you. You know how he moves in his sleep,” Gwen said. Lancelot did know; partly from first hand experience out on missions but mostly secondhand from Guinevere. There was a reason she tended to retreat to her own chambers instead of stay in bed with the king. On one notable occasion, she’d had to fake being ill for several days when in reality, Arthur had elbowed her in the face in his sleep. The bruise wasn’t very noticeable on her dark skin, but her eye was puffy and it was deemed too much of a risk for her to be seen by Court until it faded. Her position as queen was still tenuous enough with her being a commoner, and they couldn’t afford to have rumors circulating around that her husband had hit her. Damaging as Arthur could be in his sleep already, it would be even worse with Lancelot already injured, so he grudgingly admitted that it made sense for him to sleep on a cot on the ground.

He wondered about Gwen, though. She was used to sleeping on the floor, he knew, as she had done so most of the time when she was Morgana’s servant. Lancelot hoped, however, that she would either lie beside him or leave to go to her own bed. He didn’t want her lying on the floor for him. As the King’s Champion, it was his role to protect and serve the royal family, not the other way around.

“I’m okay now,” he replied softly, even though it felt like every part of his body was thrumming with suppressed pain. “You don’t all need to sit vigil any longer.”

“We do not stay out of need,” Gwen replied. She didn’t elaborate, but the real reason was said as clearly in her actions as it would have been with words as she continued to card her hands through his hair in the way she knew he loved. “Just as I know you don’t fight because you are beholden to. Now go back to sleep. We’ll be here when you wake.”

“No, actually, hold up on that for a moment,” Merlin said, bending down to retrieve something from under the bed. “I’ve got a tonic for the pain you should drink first.” He pulled out a small glass bottle and lifted Lancelot’s head to help him drink it, bless him. The knight had been trying not to let show how much agony he was in, so as not to worry his friends, but they’d clearly seen it anyway. The tonic was sweet and its effect almost immediate. Breathing more deeply now that the pain had released its death-grip on his chest, he relaxed into Gwen’s fingers in his hair and Merlin’s comforting presence by his side. He knew that they stayed with him mostly to reassure themselves that he still breathed, but the vigil served a second purpose when he was awake. It made him feel safe. He knew no harm would come to him while they were there, and secure in that knowledge, he drifted back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Lancelot would survive, Gaius assured them all after the first day. The knight had spent most of it unconscious, but apparently that was normal given the trauma and how much blood he had lost. What was less certain, however, was to what extent his arm would heal and whether he would ever regain the full use of it. There was a good chance that the bone would not knit properly, leaving his shoulder fragile and painful for the rest of his life, or that the muscles wouldn't regain their former strength or he'd lose his fine motor control. The worst part, it seemed, was the uncertainty. It would be weeks before they could even safely unbind his arm from his chest and months before he should try to move it. 

In light of that, Merlin, Gwen, and Arthur had debated what to tell him. Guinevere didn’t want to worry him when it might be unnecessary and there wasn’t anything he could do about it anyway, but her husband argued that he had a right to know. Merlin had suggested a compromise and they’d agreed to tell him the truth if he asked, but not to burden him with it if he didn’t.

Gwen was lying on the blankets beside Lancelot, reading a book that she couldn’t seem to focus on, when he woke again. It always seemed to be her turn on watch when he did so, which was hardly surprising given that she had yet to leave him and only took short breaks to sleep. She had fewer responsibilities than Arthur and Merlin, and since she had experience as a caretaker for Uther, they’d come to the unspoken agreement that she would be the one to look after Lancelot. She didn’t mind. It was… well, it was actually kind of nice to be able to just spend time with him, just the two of them, though obviously she wished it was under different circumstances.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” she asked softly as he began to stir. He just hummed in response, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. Here, Gaius left you this for the pain if it was bad.” She took the vial from the side table and helped him drink. Despite the fact that he was clearly hurting, he would only take a sip.

“I don’t want to fall right back asleep like last time,” he explained, voice breathy with some combination of pain and amusement.

“You have been sleeping for an awfully long time,” Gwen agreed lightly. “Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

“I’d like to sit up, if that’s possible,” he said, lips quirking upwards in a smile. “I think I’ll need help.”

Gwen pursed her lips, considering. “Alright,” she said after a moment. “But you must promise not to try to stand, or push it beyond what your body can handle.”

“I swear,” he agreed, and Gwen had to consider the very different question of how to actually get him upright when she knew she wasn’t strong enough to just sit him up herself. Eventually they figured out that he could roll onto his left side and then with Gwen’s help twist around and sit up so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed and he sat looking towards the window. The serving-girl-turned-queen rearranged the blankets until Lance caught her with his left hand around her waist and pulled her gently over to sit down by his side. He leaned against her, clearly needing the support, and the tightness in his body told her that he was still in pain despite his best effort to appear otherwise.

Slowly and carefully, looking for any indication of pain, she tilted her head to the side to lie it against his shoulder and placed a hand carefully on his lower back for support. He stiffened minutely but then relaxed, leaning into her touch and leaning his own head so that his cheek rested against her hair. Gwen tried to imagine this happening a year ago and couldn’t. After he had first been chosen as Champion, Lancelot had seemed to almost avoid Guinevere as much as his position would allow. He flinched away from even her casual touches and sometimes avoided making eye contact. She hadn’t understood why and feared she had done something, though she couldn’t think of what it might be, to hurt him. She’d had to have Arthur help corner him so she could apologize for whatever it was she had done, which was when they’d learned that he was actually worried of hurting her or coming between the king and queen. They’d convinced him that it was actually more suspicious for him to spurn their affection than to accept it, since he seemed very worried that the Court would think he was having an affair with Guinevere. It had been the work of many more months of consistent reassurances, long conversations, and hugs before he accepted that he didn’t have to be afraid of being loved by them, or of loving them back.

With their heads pressed together, Gwen could see that Lancelot’s eyes were focused not out the window, but on Arthur’s desk and the half-mended hauberk that lay on it.

“I thought it was just the standard that was damaged,” he remarked. His voice sounded deceptively casual, but Guinevere knew him and could tell he was worried. She knew from experience how disorienting it could be to come to and realize things had been done to you while you were senseless. He was probably trying to figure out how the mail shirt had been damaged after the fight had ended and he’d slipped into unconsciousness.

“We had to cut the hauberk so we could take it off without hurting you,” she explained. “I’m repairing it myself, though, so I promise it will be as strong as it ever was.”

Lancelot went still at those words, breath catching, and she realized she had said the wrong thing when he asked “Will I ever be? As strong as I was before, I mean.” She took a deep breath herself before answering.

“Gaius said we won’t know for at least a month and a half. You have to let yourself heal first.” Something dripped against her hair and with the realization that he was crying, she tried to pull away so she could dry his tears, but his arm around her waist tightened. Just minutely, so that it could barely be considered a gentle squeeze, but with Lancelot that spoke volumes. He was always so careful with her, far more so than Arthur or her brother or even Merlin. It used to bother her, as she assumed that he thought she was fragile, before she realized that he was that way even with the other knights. He would clasp arms with them tightly or clap them on the back, but like Percival, he always seemed to hold back his full strength in a way the others didn’t. Hopefully, though, they would learn to do so for him while he healed.

“If it doesn’t heal right, I won’t be able to be a knight anymore,” he said, voice choked. Gwen wondered if he was holding her beside him so she couldn’t look him in the face and see him cry.

“No, you won’t,” she agreed. Although her instinct was to comfort him, Arthur had argued that as a soldier, he had a right to know. Though losing the use, or some of the use, of a limb would be devastating to anyone, most jobs would be able to adapt to it. As queen, for example, Guinevere herself had very few responsibilities that required both hands. But for a knight, especially one who held himself to as high a standard as Lancelot, losing the use of his sword arm could be a blow he might never recover from. It would be cruel to hide that from him until they knew for certain, because by that point they could have deprived him of months in which he could begin to get used to the idea. 

“But even if you can’t be a knight,” Gwen continued, “You will still be worthy and noble and beautiful and  _ we will still love you _ .” She had to make him see that his value did not come just from what he did for others, a hard lesson she had learned herself years ago with help from Merlin, and, surprisingly, Arthur.

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I wasn’t a knight,” he said, apparently ignoring her words. She tried not to be frustrated by that.

“You don’t have to know yet. And anyway, you might recover fully, so I would advise you not to worry about it for now.” She wanted him to just concentrate on healing. “But whatever happens, you will have friends to help you through it.”

As if to prove her point, Merlin threw the door open and carried in a tray. He smiled when he saw Lancelot sitting up, and didn’t let it fade even though he must’ve noticed that his eyes were red from crying. “You’re awake!” he announced cheerfully, as if they hadn’t noticed that already. “I thought you might be, and I figured you’d be hungry if you were, given that you’ve been asleep for a day, so I brought breakfast.” He glanced through the window at where the sun was in the sky. “Er, or lunch I guess.”

“You’re a godsend, Merls,” Lancelot said as his stomach growled, suddenly reminded that it was empty. Gwen realized that she also hadn’t eaten. She’d been planning to ask a servant to bring her breakfast, but it had slipped her mind. Merlin didn’t seem to have brought enough for two, so she’d just have to wait. Except it seemed like Lancelot wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “Have  _ you _ eaten anything Gwen?” he asked as she arranged the pillows behind him and helped him sit back against them.

“I’ll get something later,” she replied, and was instantly fixed with two disapproving looks from the men.

“You should go get something from the kitchens,” Merlin said, and in his words was an implication that he would look after Lancelot while she was gone. She was nevertheless reluctant to leave, and promised to return soon.

* * *

  
  


As soon as Gwen left, closing the door behind her, Merlin walked over to Lancelot. He brought the tray of food with him, but that was not his most urgent priority. Very gently, he lay a hand over the bandages on his shoulder and muttered “ **Gestepe hole! Þurhhæle.”** Lancelot squirmed slightly, a wince pinching at the corners of his eyes, before settling again.

“Sorry,” Merlin apologized. “I’m not very good at healing spells, but I think I can at least help your body heal itself properly, and maybe even a little faster.”

“Thank you,” the injured knight breathed as he let the servant set the food down on his lap. There was a bowl of soup, of a decidedly higher quality than what he normally fed Arthur, bread, and some sliced pears. Merlin winced and reconsidered his choice of main dish when Lancelot spilled the first three spoonfuls he tried to eat, though thankfully just onto the tray each time rather than his bandaged chest. He hadn’t considered the fact that Lancelot couldn’t use his dominant hand and might not have the necessary dexterity for soup in his left.

“Do you need help?” Merlin asked gently.

Lancelot sighed. “I fear that I do, but I can’t bear to be fed like a baby,” he replied, setting the spoon down on the tray probably harder than he was trying to in frustration.

“I understand. Here, let me tear up the bread for you,” Merlin offered, recognizing that that was a task that would require two hands, “and then you can dip it in the soup until I can figure out how to enchant a spoon to float for you.”

“That sounds great. As long as it doesn’t fly away with my soup,” Lancelot agreed, finally smiling again. It was good to see, after the tears and creases of pain that had lined his face since his injury. Merlin tore a chunk of bread off the loaf and handed it to him to dip in the soup. The servant ate some himself, earning a soft laugh from his friend. He had missed that sound, after the knight was chosen as Champion. Lance had taken his job protecting the king very seriously, almost more so than Merlin himself, and for a good three months the warlock hadn’t even been able to lure him into using his new position to play pranks on Arthur. Only after Gwen had given her approval would he join in. Thankfully, after that, Lancelot mostly returned to his usual self, who could often give Gwaine a run for his money in terms of how much trouble he caused. The main difference was that he could at least usually get himself out of it, and tended not to let problems grow out of control or put people (besides himself) in danger.

There was still soup left in the bowl when they’d finished the loaf of bread, and Lancelot began to pick at the pears. “Should I get more bread?” Merlin asked.

“What happened to the enchanted spoon idea?”

“Ah, well, after some consideration I decided that the odds of getting soup on the ceiling were too high, and I don’t exactly know how I would explain that to Arthur.”

“Ah, fair point,” Lance agreed. “And no, you needn’t go fetch more bread. I’m mostly full anyway.”

“More likely you’ve just lost your appetite, but that’s okay. You’ve had enough to keep your strength up.” He took the tray once the pears were finished, setting it on the ground beside his chair. “I ran into the knights down in the kitchen. Gwaine was stealing a chicken. I think theft and food are how he deals with stress.”

“Stress?” Lancelot asked. Merlin looked at him as if wondering whether he was dense, an expression usually reserved for Arthur.

“Yes, you turnip. You’re hurt, so of course he’s worried.” He leaned forward in his chair and bumped his forehead affectionately against Lancelot’s thick skull like a cat would when they wanted to be pet. The man was good at trusting others to watch his back in a fight, and he trusted Merlin implicitly ever since the warlock had committed identity theft to help him become a knight, but sometimes he had trouble remembering that they cared for him beyond his ability to protect them. He’d gotten used to it with Gwen, Merlin, and Arthur, but not so much with the other knights. If something good were to come of his injury now, it would be for them to hang out together outside the context of patrols and training, so he might have time to internalize the fact that they were friends. As soon as Lancelot could walk or ride, he decided, he’d plan a picnic for all of them outside of Camelot. In the meantime… “I’m sure they’d like to come see you at some time if you’re up for it.”

“Hm. Maybe tomorrow,” Lancelot replied, sighing deeply and leaning back into the pillows his torso was propped up with. His jaw tightened and his eyes pinched closed with pain at the movement.

“Sure. You set the pace for all of this.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles as he propped them up on the bed. “Do you want a book or something to read?”

Lancelot’s lips twisted into a mischievous smile. “Only if I can read your magic book.”

“In the king’s own chambers? No, I don’t think so,” Merlin said, for once possessing some sense. It was only because it would be Lancelot’s life he was endangering rather than his own. “You wouldn’t even be able to quickly hide it under a pillow. You can read it once you move to my room.” Lance tsked behind his teeth, clearly disappointed. Merlin, for his part, was going to try to keep the injured knight here in the king’s chambers for as long as he could. He was rather enjoying having his own bed free, and this time they wouldn’t be able to share the tiny mattress in his room, so he would end up sleeping on the floor as soon as Lance moved in.

“Fine. In that case though, I demand you tell me the story about Uther marrying a troll.”

“You’ve heard that a thousand times!”

“Yes, and it’s been funny every single one.”

“I forgot that you turn into a little kid demanding bedtime stories whenever you’re sick or injured.”

“I get bored when I’m trapped in bed,” Lancelot said, shrugging with one shoulder.

“Okay. I’ll tell you a story  _ if _ you take the rest of the pain draught,” Merlin bargained. He had noticed it sitting half full on the bedside table, and based on the winces that still caught on Lance’s mouth whenever he moved, half hadn’t been enough. The story would make him laugh, he knew, and he didn’t want that to hurt.

Reaching over awkwardly, Lancelot grabbed the small glass bottle in one hand and downed it all in one gulp like Gwaine fulfilling a dare at the tavern. Not that he needed to be dared to drink. He wore the same stupid grin too as he slammed the bottle back down to the nightstand. “Story. Now,” he demanded, wearing a smile, but Merlin couldn’t obey because he was laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day!


End file.
